


Bickering on Baker Street or What Have You Done NOW, Sherlock??

by Norma_de_Plume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Bickering, Johnlock Roulette, Living Together, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norma_de_Plume/pseuds/Norma_de_Plume
Summary: You have to admit it - Sherlock has done some pretty outrageous things to John in the course of their time sharing a living space. Apparently nothing is sacred. At least not to Sherlock. Usually.How would some of those arguments go if we could have a front row seat?





	1. 1. Teadious Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purpleplusher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplusher/gifts).



> This rose from a tumblr prompt from the delightful purpleplusher. They proposed a sort of Enemies to Lovers troupe, where the boys dislike each other at first meeting, so living together would probably be one calamity after another. 
> 
> What might some of those arguments be about?
> 
> I'm SO glad you asked...
> 
> (Each chapter stands alone and I'll add more chapters as I think up more scenarios. Please DO offer up any suggestions if you care to!)
> 
> Edit 8/22/19: I'm marking this work as completed, though I might eventually add more foolishness as I think of it. Enjoy!

  1. Teadious Business



 

John shuffled blearily into the kitchen Sunday morning, yawning to himself. Sherlock was already at the table, peering at a slide set up in his microscope.

 

“'Mornin’,” John slurred in an off-handed manner in Sherlock's general direction.

 

Sherlock may have grunted in response.

 

John pulled out the box of tea bags and deposited them on the counter. He stopped to scratch his head and stretch his neck a bit. He then filled the kettle and switched it on.

 

Upon opening the box, John was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of dust and dried leaves. Tea dust and leaves to be exact. Every single tea bag had been stripped of its filter paper pouch and was now just a sad heap of dried plant matter at the bottom of the box.

 

“SHERLOCK!” John bellowed. “What the bloody hell did you do to the tea bags, you insufferable git? If I wanted to buy loose leaf tea, I would have done that in the first place!!”

 

John leaned menacingly over the table to get Sherlock to even LOOK at him while he attempted to dress him down.

 

Sherlock sniffed delicately and deigned to meet John's murderous glare.

 

“I needed a fine filtration mechanism to separate some sensitive particulate I am working with. The fine metal sieve I would have normally employed was unfortunately, unavailable.”

 

John rolled his eyes at the memory. It had  involved a fire extinguisher, burn salve and gauze, and a lot of cursing on his part.

 

“I merely improvised,” Sherlock concluded.

 

“With my tea bags??? Damn it all! That's FOOD, Sherlock! And not only that, but food that is MINE!!”

 

John ranted and gestured emphatically until Sherlock sighed, shook himself lightly like a bored dog, and got up from the table towards the flat door.

 

John halted mid-expletive and barked, “What the hell? Where do you think you are going, just waltzing off while I'm trying to get through your thick skull and shove some damn sense in there??”

 

Sherlock pivoted insolently at door and glared at John through cold, half-slitted lids.

 

“I'm going down to see Mrs. Hudson. SHE will make me a cup of tea.”

 


	2. Here's Looking at You, Idiot.

2\. Here's Looking at You, Idiot

 

John emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and shaved. He slung his towel over his shoulder and retied the belt on his dressing gown.

 

Hmm. Had he put on some weight? The front of the garment didn't seem to cross as much over his chest and middle as he remembered.

 

Perhaps he ought to lay off the lagers for a bit.

 

John was uncomfortable all day. His pants felt particularly tight after what seemed to be a meger lunch and he kept having to tug at the collars on his sleeves to keep them from riding up.

 

He was not in a good mood when he arrived home that evening to 221b.

 

He met Mrs. Hudson on the his way up the stairs.

 

“John, dear,” she trilled. “Give this to Sherlock if you would, please.”

 

A spool of thread was thrust into his hands.

 

“Tell him it's the heaviest I have,“ she smiled merrily and patted his hand as she guided him back up on his way.

 

Thread?

 

John changed into his cotton pajama bottoms and vest and let out a huff of frustration. The trouser legs barely touched his ankles and his sleep shirt was pinching at his armpits.

 

Thread.

 

“SHERLOCK!!! What the devil have you done now???”

 

He marched downstairs and belligerently planted himself beside Sherlock's lounging form there on the sofa.

 

“Why do none of my clothes fit, you utter arse?? And why is Mrs. Hudson giving you thread?? What the hell are you on about THIS time? You’d better make this right, damn you!”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes from his thinking pose and seemed a bit surprised at John's presence in the flat.

 

“Ah, yes,“ he rumbled. “Just a moment, let me get my notes.”

 

Sherlock reached under the cushion and pulled out a slim journal.

 

“Hold that thought,“ he distractedly waved at John as he scribbled intently in the little book.

 

“There. That took a total of nine days John. Not very self aware, now are we, hmm?”

 

Sherlock shot him a withering glance and smirked with almost evil intent.

 

John wanted to rip that smirk right off his face.

 

“Explain NOW, Sherlock.”

 

John crossed his arm defensively and felt the unmistakable sensation of a seam ripping.

 

Damn him.

 

“Experiment, John, “ Sherlock intoned breezily. “All a matter of perception, you know. I've been subtly altering your clothing for nine days and you did not notice until now. It helps prove the case I'm working on where a woman drove her partner to a mental breakdown in a similar manner. Your help has been invaluable.”

 

Sherlock pulled himself up in that completely graceful and boneless way of his and sauntered off to his bedroom.

 

“The Work appreciates your effort, John,” he called out as he shut his bedroom door.

 

John sunk to the sofa in defeat. He refused to watch a rerun of Gaslight that was on even though he had always loved Ingrid Bergman.

 

Damn him.


	3. The Eyes Have It

3\. The Eyes Have It

  
John returned home after an arduous day at the clinic. It was flu season, ergo, the entire place was full to bursting with beleaguered and snot-filled gunge sufferers.  
  
  
  
He shuffled into the kitchen and immediately filled and flipped on the kettle. A cuppa might go a long way to salvaging his day.  
  
  
  
He opened the fridge to check the milk situation and was pleasantly surprised to find the milk he bought AND a carton of actual cream, tucked behind the largest bag of carrots he had honestly ever seen.  
  
  
  
Had Sherlock gone to shops of his own volition? He felt a shiver of excited anticipation race through him.  
  
  
  
He couldn't remember the last time he had actual cream in his tea and it was bloody fantastic.  
  
  
  
Sherlock bounded up the stairs about an hour later. John was reading the paper in his chair and feeling the satisfied heavy sleepiness of a man content in his domain.  
  
  
  
“Thanks for the cream, mate,” John chirped over the edge of the folded paper. “Really hit the spot.”  
  
  
  
Sherlock came to an abrupt halt and turned awkwardly back towards John.  
  
  
  
“Cream? Whatever are you talking about, John?”  
  
  
  
His voice wavered a touch.  
  
  
  
“The carton in the fridge,” John said carefully, as if to a sugared-up five year old.  
  
  
  
“Ah, that,” Sherlock grimaced for just an moment and then beamed beatifically at him. “You are always going on about how I finish the milk, so, um, there you are.”  
  
  
  
Sherlock settled back into the sitting room upon the sofa and proceeded to stare at John. It was unnerving. He could never REALLY tell if it was him being stared at or just in John's general direction.  
  
  
  
A half of an hour later, Sherlock broke the silence.  
  
  
  
“John, are you at the clinic tomorrow?”  
  
  
  
“Er, um, nooo,”John cautiously replied.  
  
  
  
“Ah. Good. Well, good night then. *Ahem*.” Sherlock blurted out rapidly as he edged his way in an almost hesitant manner towards his bedroom.  
  
  
  
“Madman,” John thought, shaking his head ruefully. With that, he headed up for bed himself.  
  
  
  
John woke with the uneasy feeling of being watched. Opening his eyes, he discovered why. Sherlock was looming over his bed with a piece of litmus paper in his hand.  
  
  
  
“What the hell, Sherlock??” John roared. “That's NOT the way to wake up a veteran with PTSD who owns a handgun!”  
  
  
  
Sherlock cautiously backed away, not before he pressed the paper to John's cheek.  
  
  
  
“Apologies, John. I'll leave you in peace,” Sherlock uncharacteristically backpedaled.  
  
  
  
“Whoa, whoa. Get back here,” John snarled. “Why, are you blotting my face?”  
  
  
  
Sherlock had the actual good grace to hang his head a few degrees.  
  
  
  
“I didn't label the carton John.”  
  
  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
  
  
The cream.  
  
  
  
John walked to his wardrobe door and looked in the mirror. His face was a deep, rich, and impossible orange.  
  
  
  
John took a deep breath and motioned with his hands for Sherlock to goddamnwell continue.  
  
  
  
“You see, I do admit that I neglected to label that specimen. I'm conducting an experiment on the direct effect of concentrated beta carotene on the human cornea in relation to ocular functionality and encroching presbyopia.  
  
  
  
“English, Sherlock,” John spat out between clenched teeth.  
  
  
  
“Oh, very well. It's for Mummy. She is vehemently opposed to wearing reading glasses and asked for my assistance. The cream made an ideal substrate for the beta carotene solution. Beta carotene, as you well know, is vital in eye health and visual accuity. There. It won't happen again, I assure you.”  
  
  
  
Sherlock lifted his chin haughtily and stormed out in high dungeon.  
  
  
  
John stood in stunned amazement for a tick and then burst out laughing.  
  
  
  
Sherlock was playing the dutiful son - albeit in a mad scientist sort of way, but nevertheless, a boy looking after his mother.  
  
  
  
Pity that HE would be a pumpkin as a result.  
  
  
  
A thought occurred to John.  
  
  
  
“Oi! What were you doing with that paper on my face, you wanker?” John shouted down the stairs.  
  
  
  
“Needed the pH of your skin to concoct an antidote for your carotenemia,” Sherlock bellowed back.  
  
  
  
Sherlock was actually FIXING this? Well. That certainly called for a celebratory cup of morning tea.  
  
  
  
Minus the cream, naturally.

 


End file.
